That night, while he slept, I packed one suitcase. I didn’t take furniture. I didn’t shout or slam anything. I drove to the small apartment my aunt had left me years earlier—a place Daniel barely remembered, empty but waiting. I slept there peacefully, steadier than I had felt in a long time.

At first light, I returned to our shared apartment. Daniel was still unconscious from the night before. I didn’t wake him. Using the red lipstick he once bought me—and later mocked for being “overly dramatic”—I wrote carefully on the bathroom mirror.

Then I placed the keys on the counter and walked out, closing the door softly behind me.

When Daniel finally woke up alone, calling my name and blinking through confusion, he stepped into the bathroom—and stopped cold as he read the words staring back at him.